The Limping Goose

17

The desk sergeant poised his pen over the police blotter. “Name?”

“Sam Cragg.”

“K-r-a-g?”

“C-r-a-g-g, anybody knows that. But look, captain, this is all a mistake.”

“It sure is. Previous convictions?”

“Whaddya mean, previous convictions?” asked Sam indignantly. “Do I look like a crook?”

“Yes. Now, you might as well tell the truth, because we’ll only check your fingerprints and it’ll be so much the worse for you if you lie. How many previous convictions?”

“None! I ain’t even been in the clink before — well, hardly ever — and it wasn’t for anything serious. Just—”

“Just what?”

“Little things, that’s all. Mistakes, that’s all. Like now, this is a big mistake. I can explain.”

The desk sergeant looked at the two arresting officers. “What’s the charge?”

“Larceny. Forgery,” said one of the policemen.

“Oh, sure, just little things,” said the desk sergeant sarcastically.

“Can you put down just plain dumbness, Sarge?” grinned one of the policemen.

“Who’s dumb?” challenged Sam.

“You are, stupid,” retorted the policeman. “Otherwise you wouldn’t go into a hotel dining room and sign the manager’s name to the check and then, to make it worse, put down Room eight hundred and something when the hotel’s only got four floors.”

Sam winced. “Anybody can make a mistake. Johnny pulled the same stunt and it worked. There wasn’t nothing...” Sam stopped, realizing that he was talking too much. He said desperately, “Ain’t it true that a prisoner’s allowed to make a phone call?”

“A jailhouse lawyer,” said the desk sergeant. He shrugged. “Yes, you’re allowed one phone call. Go ahead, here’s a telephone.”

Sam grabbed the phone, took off the receiver. “Give me New York...”

The desk sergeant snatched the phone from his hand.

“That’s long distance. You’re not getting any free long distance calls on this phone.”

“But I don’t know anybody in this burg. The only person I know, I mean the only real friend I got in the whole world is in New York. He’ll come running out to square this beef.”

“He’s a county supervisor, maybe?” asked the desk sergeant sarcastically. “He can square this... this beef?”

“Maybe he’s a Congressman,” suggested one of the policemen. “Why don’t you write him a letter? Everybody writes to his Congressman.”

“Look, captain,” Sam said to the desk sergeant, “be a sport. Okay, it’s a long distance call. I ain’t got a red cent in my pocket, but Johnny’ll pay you. He’s got five hundred fish in his pocket. He’ll come buzzing round out here and pay you. He... he might even slip you a couple of bucks. All of you.”

“Bribery!” exclaimed the desk sergeant. He picked up his pen again. “Attempting to bribe an officer...”

“No!” howled Sam. “I wasn’t. Don’t put that down. It’s bad enough. I just meant Johnny’ll pay up everything. Everything I owe. The dinner — the lunch at the hotel, the phone bill.”

The desk sergeant could not quite conceal a grin. “All right, son, I’ll trust you for that phone call. Go ahead and make it. But mind you, New York City, not Los Angeles or Seattle.”

Sam caught up the phone once more. Hurriedly he put through his call, then waited. The hotel operator rang Room 821 and rang and rang. Finally, she said, “I’m sorry, there’s no answer.”

“Gimme the bell captain — Eddie Miller!” Sam cried desperately. “This is important.”

“One moment, please.”

After a long wait, Eddie Miller’s voice said cautiously, “Bell captain.”

“Eddie! This is Sam Cragg. Look, I haven’t got time. I’m in a jam. Have you seen Johnny Fletcher since this morning?”

“Not since about ten o’clock. He came in then and — say, aren’t you kidnaped?”

“No-no. I mean, I was, but I got away. I’m okay. Except — I’m in the clink!”

“You’re in jail? Where...?”

“I dunno. Wait...”

Sam turned to the desk sergeant. “What town is this?”

“Peekskill.”

“Peekskill,” Sam said into the phone. “I’m in the Peekskill hoosegow. Johnny’s got to get me out. Tell him I need him — right away.”

“I’ll tell him as soon as I see him,” Eddie said.

“He knows that I don’t like jails,” Sam went on. “Tell him to make it snappy.”

“Sure thing.”

Sam hung up, sighing in relief. “In a couple of hours Johnny’ll be down here and everything’ll be okay.”

“Maybe so,” said the desk sergeant cynically, “although I personally think you need a lawyer more than a friend. All right, boys, take off the cuffs and put him in a cell.”

“Can’t I just wait out here?” Sam asked.

“What do you think this is, a hotel lobby? Uh-uh, we got a nice room in back. It’s got a bed in it. Of course there’s no mattress on it, but if you’re really tired you won’t mind that.”

One of the policemen removed the handcuffs from Sam’s wrists. The other held out his hand. “Your necktie and belt.”

“I need my belt,” Sam said. “I’ll lose my pants.”

“Prisoners can’t have neckties or belts,” the policeman said firmly. “It’s against the rules. They might hang themselves.”

“I ain’t going to hang myself.”

“Your belt!”

Sam groaned. He removed his belt and discovered that his trousers were not too loose around the waist. An occasional hitch would keep them up. He surrendered the belt and his necktie. Then one of the policemen began feeling his pockets.

He exclaimed in chagrin. “What’s this?”

He brought out the revolver that Sam had taken from Sid. “Holy smoke, we didn’t search him when we made the arrest.”

The second policeman winced. “I didn’t think he’d be carrying a gun and pulling a cheap job like that.” He handed the weapon to the desk sergeant.

“You boys are slipping,” the sergeant said. He picked up his pen. “Carrying a concealed weapon — to wit, a revolver. Brother, that’s a violation of the Sullivan Act.”

“I took it away from the guy who kidnaped me,” said Sam.

“Kidnaped!” The sergeant snorted. “You’re getting fancier all the time. Mmm, forgery, larceny, attempting to bribe an officer and the Sullivan Act. Yes, sir, you haven’t got a thing to worry about. Not for the next fifteen or twenty years. The State’ll take care of you.”

“Twenty years!” howled Sam. “You’re kidding. Please, Captain, don’t make jokes like that.”

One of the policemen took his arm. “Come on, mister.”

Sam jerked his arm free of the policeman’s grip. He appealed to the desk sergeant. “Don’t put me in a cell. Lemme wait here. Johnny Fletcher can explain the whole thing.”

“Come on,” said the policeman firmly. He gripped Sam’s elbow hard, but Sam again jerked his arm away and went so far as to slap down the policeman’s hand.

The policeman cried out, “Resisting arrest, assaulting an officer.”

The desk sergeant began to write. “Resisting arrest, assaulting—”

“No-no, don’t add any more,” cried Sam. “I’ll go quietly. Come on, boys.”

He started eagerly for the door leading to the jail proper. The policemen followed him.

There were three private cells in the rear, but each was occupied so Sam was led into the bullpen, a larger room equipped merely with two steel cots. Two prisoners were already in the bullpen. One of the policemen unlocked the door.

“In you go.”

Sam entered. The policeman locked the door and both went to the front of the station house.

Sam regarded his fellow prisoners glumly. One was a youth of nineteen or twenty, the other a grizzled old-timer.

“What’re you in for, buddy?” the old-timer asked cheerfully.

Sam shook his head. “It’s all a big mistake. I hadn’t ought to be here at all.”

“A mistake, eh? The cops’re always making mistakes. What do you think they’re charging me with?”

“I dunno.”

“Burglary, that’s what.”

The youth made a wet raucous sound with his mouth. “Vagrancy, that’s what you’re in for. You’re nothin’ but an old bum.”

“I resent that, bub,” retorted the oldster. “I been in more jails than you’ll ever see from the outside. I served time in Joliet, Sing Sing and Alcatraz. I got a record. And whaddya you got to brag about? Pinchin’ pennies off a newsstand.”

“Oh, yeah? Well, it just happens that I’m in for grand larceny, heisting a Caddy limousine, breaking and entering and resisting an officer. How do you like that, old man?”

“Yah!” The old tramp indicated the youth with his thumb. “They talk big, these young punks, don’t they? Tell him, pal, tell ’im what you’re in for.”

“Forgery. Grand larceny. The Sullivan Act, attempting to bribe an officer, assaulting an officer and resisting arrest.”

The youth sat up straight. “All that? You kiddin’?”

“I wish I wasn’t. The captain says I’ll be in jail for fifteen-twenty years. I’ll never make it. I can’t stand bein’ locked up.”

“Nothing much holdin’ you here,” said the old tramp. “If I had an old saw or even a little crowbar I’d be out of here in no time. Lookit them old iron bars. Half rusted away, set in plaster or somethin’ instead of concrete.”

He pointed to the barred window at the rear of the cell. Sam stepped up to it and looked through at an alley. He examined the bars. Age had crumbled the concrete foundation, age and the elements had weathered the iron bars. Sam gripped two of the bars, tested them. They wobbled in their concrete sockets.

He turned away from the window, his eyes narrowing. “If I had a lever or something, I could tear them bars loose.”

“You and who else?” jeered the youth. “A horse couldn’t tear out those bars.”

“I’m almost as strong as a horse,” said Sam modestly.

The boy wrinkled his nose in disgust. “That’s the one thing I can’t stand in these crummy jails. The bull the other prisoners throw. Always bragging how good they are at something. How many cops did it take to pinch you?”

“Two. But I couldda handled them easy if I’d wanted.” Sam’s eyes fell to the cot on which the youth was sitting. It was made of heavy tubular steel and contained a rusted spring. He dropped to his knees, tried one of the legs.

“Get up!” he ordered.

“I don’t feel like it,” snarled the youngster.

Sam reached out, pushed the boy gently. He turned a complete somersault and came up on the far side of the cot. On his hands and knees he stared at Sam, goggle-eyed.

The little bolts that held the leg of the cot to the frame were badly rusted. Sam gripped the tubular leg, gave it a sudden wrench and it came away from the frame.

“Holy smoke!” gasped the old tramp.

Grimly, Sam strode to the window. He put the tubular leg of the cot between two bars and put his strength to pushing the inner end.

Iron ground in the concrete. Sam reversed his push, saw bits of concrete spew out of the loosened socket of one of the bars, then reversed himself again. He took a deep breath and put some real effort into it this time.

The iron bar tore loose from its lower mooring, leaving a wide opening. Wide enough for a man to get through.

Sam turned and looked at his cellmates who were staring at him in awe.

“You boys want out?”

The old-timer backed away. “Not me. I got two-three days more to go, then I’m out. By the front door.”

“I’ll go with you,” said the boy. He shot a look of contempt at the old tramp. “The old coot’s better off in jail.”

“I’ll boost you,” Sam volunteered to the boy. He locked his hands together and held them as a stirrup. The boy stepped on Sam’s hands and was raised to the window. He clambered through.

“Give me a hand,” Sam said. He held up his hand, but no hand from outside touched his. The boy was out and wasted no time making himself scarce.

Swearing under his breath, Sam reached up, gripped two bars still remaining and swung himself up. The aperture was a tight fit, but, by holding his breath and squirming, Sam made it.

On his feet, he ran quickly down the alley to a side street.